Forever Rome (Forever #1)

by Brittney Sahin

  I blinked a few times when I realized he was reaching for my hand. I thought I should pull it back, but I didn’t. He held my hand in the air in front of him, and his fingers trailed over my bandaged finger. “How does it feel?”

  Oh, pretty damn good, right now. “Fine.” I pulled my hand free and brought my drink to my mouth again.

  There were a few long licks of silence between us. He looked at me and said, “Tell me something about you.”

  “I’m the one who is supposed to ask the questions.”

  “Sì, but let us just say that you are, uh, off the clock. And we are two people sitting in a bar having drinks. Like the first night we met.”

  Yes, but he had been a hot stranger that night. Now, he was my story.

  I sighed. “If I answer a question, then you need to answer one for me.”

  He leaned against the back of the chair. “Questions for the magazine or . . .?”

  “For me,” I answered, regretting my quick response, and also knowing that anything he did say to me was now off the books. Damn.

  He smoothed a hand over the five o’clock shadow he was fast developing. “Okay.” He was softening up to me, which was good.

  “What would you like to know about me?” I forced out.

  “Do you enjoy your job?” he asked rather quickly.

  Now that was a dicey question, because if I answered and followed up with the same one to him, I had a feeling he would become moody. “I get to attend sports games. Meet players. Write about them. So, yes, I love my job.”

  He nodded at me. “How long have you been doing it?”

  “A couple of years. I interned at the magazine during college, and started immediately with the magazine upon graduating.”

  “You are so young.”

  “And, what, are you old?” I laughed.

  “Older than you.”

  “Not by much.”

  “How would you know? You didn’t research me.”

  Shit. He had a point. But, despite the fact that he appeared wise, he certainly didn’t look over thirty. “Well, how old are you?”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  I started for my phone. “I can totally Google it,” I challenged, a smile threatening my lips.

  His hand was covering mine, stopping me from retrieving the phone from my purse. He pulled it back the instant we touched as if the same little shock I received had impacted him, too. “Tell me, where are you from? Your accent . . .”

  My eyes widened. “I have an accent?”

  His dimples appeared as he shot me a deep and broad smile. “You are in my country, so yes, to me, you are the foreigner.”

  Touché. “I’m from Alabama. Well, I live in New York now, but I was born and raised in the deep south,” I said, deepening my Southern accent while popping my right shoulder up for added flair.

  “I thought as much. You have a nice voice.”

  Me? Oh yeah, sure. “You’re the one with the sexy accent.” Filter! Where the hell was my filter? I needed to think before I spoke, dang it.

  “You think my accent is sexy?” He raised a dark brow. “It is normal.”

  “To you,” I pointed out. “To me, it’s exotic. I mean—all Italian accents are sexy,” I clarified. “Don’t go thinking you’re special.” Whew. And . . . my confidence and sanity were back. Touchdown.

  The laughter rolled off his tongue, smooth but hearty. “Tell me, Maggie—”

  I raised my hand in the air. “No. No. My turn.”

  He faked a pout. “Molto bene. Go ahead.”

  “How is it that your English is so good? Do you speak other languages, too?” I was curious. I took French in school growing up, and even in college, but damn if I could remember much, and even if I did, it would pale in comparison to his ability to speak English.

  “I speak Spanish and Portuguese also, but I assure you, Italian is by far my best.”

  He knew all the languages of love. Just great. The man would have me wrapped around his damn pinky if I let him. And no, I couldn’t let him. Then again, maybe that wasn’t even what he wanted.

  He’s a player, I reminded myself. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  His shoulders rocked back as his spine straightened. His hands went up to his hat and he adjusted it as if he were nervous someone would spot him. “I went to school in England.”

  “Really?” I had a hard time imagining him at a British school. God, he must’ve had every English girl swooning with his charm.

  “I moved there when I was fifteen, and my English wasn’t great. If I did poorly in school, I would have been kicked off the football team, so I studied a lot. Sean was a good friend. He helped me. Okay, more like he always made sure his girlfriend tutored me. He didn’t want to risk losing me from the team.”

  “Oh.” I wanted to ask more, but I didn’t press my luck. Besides, most of what we were talking about I could dig up online for my story. He wasn’t telling me anything too earthshattering.

  Marco was quiet now, so I studied my drink as if it were some mystical being. “Want another?” I asked once I noticed his drink was near empty.

  “You do not need to wait on me, but grazie.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind. I don’t want someone spotting you.” I winked and started to get up. He reached into his pocket for money, but I darted away before he had the chance. Just because he was a millionaire didn’t mean he needed to buy all of the drinks.

  “Mags, you mind if I cut out of here?” Will asked once I was at his side.

  I eyed the woman next to him. “No problem. I’m sure Marco can get me back to the hotel.”

  “Thanks, babe. Tell Marco I’ll catch him tomorrow.” He squeezed my forearm and kissed my cheek. The woman swooped her arm around Will’s, and they left.

  He sure moved fast. “Um, scusi? Do you speak English?” I didn’t want to be presumptive, but Will hadn’t any trouble ordering the drinks.

  The bartender tossed a wet rag onto his shoulder, smoothed a hand over his dark mustache, and pressed his hands to the bar in front of me. His dark brown eyes focused on me, and his lips flipped up into a broad smile. “What would you like, signorina?”

  I gave him my drink order and reached into my purse for some euros. As I waited for him to make the drinks, I drummed my fingers on the counter. Then I stole a look over my shoulder, to the back corner of the bar, where Marco was sitting.

  Marco had shifted in his seat, exposing his profile. Was he trying to keep an eye on me?

  My head whipped back around when he caught my eye.

  “American, yes?”

  Say what? A man to my right was studying me and in the very truest form of the word. His eyes dragged up and down my body without any hint of modesty. He took checking out to a whole new level, and his gaze was giving me chills—and not the kind Marco gave me, but the skeevy ones.

  “So, what is your name?” the man asked with his eyes now back on mine.

  I chose to ignore him and shifted my attention to the bar.

  Then his hand was on my forearm, his fingers blazing a trail up my arm. I jerked away and lost my balance.

  Italian words poured over my shoulder: gritty, edgy. And oh-so pissed off.

  Shit. Marco was blowing his cover.

  I had no idea what Marco and the mystery man were discussing, but it evolved into yelling. And suddenly, there were several other men surrounding us, and a fiery exchange was taking place.

  I got the feeling their conversation was no longer about me because I heard a few discernable words: Roma. Football. Capitano.

  That was what Marco had been afraid of. His fans were angry at him for quitting. Especially since he’d given no reason for it. I could visualize writing this scene in my article, discussing the intense stand-off between Marco and his fans—the tension . . . I took mental notes, but hated myself for allowing my job to hit the front of my mind, when I should have been worried about what was about to happen.

  The volume increased
between Marco and the stranger, followed by shoving, with Marco being on the receiving end. He was probably trying hard not to lose his temper, but would he win the battle?

  I gasped as one man grabbed my arm and yelled something in my face. What? Did he think I had any clue about why Marco had quit?

  The man’s breath was on me for only a moment before Marco reeled his arm back and knocked the guy on the side of the head.

  Then Marco’s hand was on my arm. “Come on.” He spat out a few more words, jerking his head up in the air as he added what I assumed to be F-you in Italian, accompanied by a flick of his hand beneath his chin at the man. He rushed me to the exit.

  The men yelled as we darted out of the doors.

  “Are you okay?” Marco asked as we began down the street.

  “Um. Are you okay?” I reached for his hand as we stopped a block or so away from the bar.

  Not that he had wimpy hands, but the guy’s jaw had been large, square, and perched on top of about six feet of insane muscle.

  “I’m fine.” He pulled his hand free from mine as if my touch burned him. “Sorry about that.”

  “What were you guys talking about?” But I knew. Or, at least, I assumed.

  He released a deep lungful of crisp August air and began to walk again. I followed after him, wondering if he’d answer my question.

  “Italians can be very passionate about football. They are not taking my quitting so well,” he said as we rounded another block.

  I clearly didn’t know Marco well, but there was definite pain there. His voice was laced with sadness, and I had the sudden urge to wrap my arms around him and tell him everything would be okay. And I wasn’t the empathetic, hugging type.

  “Marco.”

  He spun around to face me on the semi-busy street. I lifted my chin up as his hands came down over my arms.

  There was a moment of silence between us, and he swallowed, dropped his hands to his sides, and took a step back.

  “Maggie, I could use another drink,” he said hesitantly. He scratched the back of his neck and found my eyes.

  “Oh. Um.” I coughed. “How about my hotel room?”

  Six

  “You must listen to this song.” Marco tapped at my iPad, increased the volume, and moved his head to the slow wail of a man’s voice as it rose in time with the beat.

  Sitting on the floor, I rested my back to the couch with my legs stretched out in front of me, observing Marco as he sat opposite of me. His long, jeaned legs were crossed at the ankles, and he appeared more relaxed than earlier.

  We’d been listening to music with little conversation between us for the last half hour or so. But judging by how quickly he was tossing back the contents of the mini bar, I had to assume he wasn’t here for the conversation.

  “What’s the song about?”

  “It’s about a man falling hard for a woman, but she does not return his love.” His eyes darkened, and the amber liquor in his glass sloshed around as he moved his arm with the music.

  “Sounds depressing.”

  “Ah. No. It is about amore.”

  Love. “But if she doesn’t love him back . . .”

  “Love is still love, even if it is not returned. No?”

  Did he mean yes or no? I was confused. “Um. Okay. Sure.”

  His hand slipped to my bare ankle, and a zap of energy traveled up my leg. I inhaled and released a slow breath.

  “Tell me, Maggie—tell me something else about you. We did not finish speaking earlier.”

  I stared down at his hand on my ankle, feeling dazed. “I’m not good with general questions,” I said after ripping my gaze from his hand, trying to ignore the flood of heat that was building in my body.

  “What do you mean by this?”

  I swallowed a mouthful of the cranberry and vodka. “Ask me a specific question, and I’ll answer it.”

  “Oh. I see.” He removed his hand from my leg and tapped his fingers on his chin. “What else do you like? Other than American football. And writing about it, of course.”

  He lifted his nearly empty glass to his lips, and my attention remained frozen on his full mouth for a few moments as I pondered his question. “I enjoy a lot of things. Running. Hiking. Rock climbing, even though I’m petrified of heights. Dancing, but—”

  “You, uh, climb the rocks? But you are afraid? Then why do it?” He popped upright and to his feet and moved over to the small bar adjacent to the kitchenette.

  The man was going to get drunk, but that didn’t mean I had to make stupid decisions along with him.

  “You’ve never done anything you’re afraid of?”

  He looked over his shoulder at me as he poured his drink. “All of the time. But I didn’t think there were that many crazy people, like me, out there.”

  “Is there anything you’re afraid of that you don’t do?” I couldn’t help but ask.

  He faced me, gripping his glass. “Yes.”

  The inquisitive part of me was dying to ask, but for some damn reason, I didn’t.

  He took a sip of his drink. “Every time I enter the stadium, my heart beats so loud.” He placed a hand over his heart and drummed his fingers slowly against his chest. “I’ve thrown up sometimes before games. But these are good nerves. If you stop being excited and even a little scared . . . you stop living.”

  He closed the distance between us and set his glass on the coffee table by me, shifting down to one knee by my side. Oh God. What was he doing?

  “All of the best things in life have always made me a little bit afraid.” His voice was smooth and silky, wrapping me in its warmth. Part of me wanted to trap his words in my mind as a quote for my article . . . and the other part of me just wanted to get lost in the moment.

  And my rationale brain was losing. Fast.

  My lips parted, and I stared up at his face, only inches from mine.

  “Your eyes are a beautiful shade of blue. They remind me of the sea, of the water along the Amalfi Coast. A slight hint of green dancing in your irises, sometimes. But other times, they are crystal clear blue—so light I can see right into you.”

  I released the breath I’d been holding since he’d moved so near.

  His knuckles were on my cheek, and I held my glass tight in my hand, not sure what to do.

  “Bellissima.” His eyes narrowed. “I should go. I drank too much, too quickly.” He blinked, but his hand remained on my cheek.

  Desire swept through me, taking over in an all-consuming way. I wanted him to stay, but that was crazy.

  He pushed to his feet, and the loss of his touch left a cool print on my cheek. “Are you okay?” I left my drink on the floor and started to stand.

  His hand was on my forearm, helping me up. And I was warm again.

  “Maggie?”

  I gulped. “Yeah?”

  “What’s your middle name?”

  “What? Why?”

  He shrugged. “I’m curious.”

  “Anne.”

  He smiled at me. “Maggie. Anne. Lane.” He enunciated my names as if each were a separate statement. “I am glad your boss forced you to come here.”

  “You are?” I asked, a little breathless.

  His gaze was on my arm, where his fingers still rested.

  “Yes.”

  “So, I won’t make you curse anymore?”

  He released a deep laugh as his fingers left my forearm. “I don’t know about that.” His gray eyes captured mine, and my heart clapped in my chest. “I will see you in the morning, Maggie Anne Lane.”

  Oh, kill me now, I prayed. “Okay.”

  He turned and approached the door. “I have one more question.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why did you kiss me?” his voice rasped.

  He faced me, and my body shivered. My shoulders shook, betraying me. “I—I . . . um.”

  His eyes glinted, and he flashed me a wicked smile before turning to open the door. “Goodnight, Maggie.”

  What a t
ease. My fingernails dug into my palms as I watched him move through the door, hoping to curtail my lust with pricks of pain.

  “Goodnight, Marco.”

  Seven

  Marco posing for Will inside the Roman Colosseum was one of the most delicious sights I’d ever seen. He was dressed in khaki linen pants, a white tee, and held a soccer ball under his arm. With aviator sunglasses on . . . wow. He could play the part of a Roman gladiator any day. Who needed Russell Crowe with Marco Valenti around?

  Tourists were moseying around, trying to steal their own pictures of Marco. I guessed that the women were tucking away some mental images of Marco, as well.

  I didn’t blame them one bit—I was guilty of the same sin. I couldn’t help but picture Marco’s golden chest exposed atop a loin cloth. Okay, so the ancient Romans probably wore a toga, or a robe or something. But this was my fantasy—an illegal fantasy, because I wasn’t supposed to be harboring thoughts of mind-blowing sex with the man . . .

  My purse vibrated once against my leg, and I dug into it for my phone. I already knew it would be my editor, Travis. He’d been sending me texts regularly requesting status updates.

  Where do we stand with the story? Still quitting?

  I groaned and stowed my phone back away into my purse, ignoring the text from Travis when I caught Will flashing me an okay sign, saying we were good to go. I followed several paces behind Will and Marco as we made our way through the maze structure and out of the building. I walked under the Arch of Constantine, a high monument outside the Colosseum, and caught up with them.

  “So, you ever going to tell me what happened to you last night?” I jabbed Will in the side like he was always doing to me.

  He cocked an eyebrow and grinned. “Damn, woman, you need to get your own sex life. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

  My cheeks heated, and my stomach flip-flopped as Marco looked over at me, a smile neatly placed on his face. It was a damn devilish grin if I’d ever seen one.

  I slipped free of my shy exterior, praying for the strength to remain bold. “I’m perfectly fine in that department. But thank you.” What was Will trying to do to me?

  Marco coughed a little as if he were trying not to laugh at my answer. What was going on in that hot Italian head of his?